by Eric Spitznagel
I was visiting my 93-year-old grandmother in southern Florida, helping her clean house for the summer, when I stumbled across something I was never meant to see. It was a shoebox hidden in the back of a closet, covered in warnings like “Ant Poison” and “Dangerous, DON’T TOUCH!” I pulled it down and peered inside. The box was filled with letters, most so old they looked like they’d been soaked in tea. I opened one and started reading.
“Dear Bill,” it began. “It’s been two weeks and already I miss you terribly. I have such an aching desire for you, I feel as if I might die.”
They were love letters, and judging from the addressee, love letters written to my late grandfather. There was only one thing that didn’t make sense. The letters were all signed by somebody named Betty, and my grandmother’s name isn’t Betty.